“…The words, the movements, the beat. It was all the same, but it felt off. The words felt frustrated and sad. Like a struggling artist who can’t quite amount to the expectations that the audience set for her. But there wasn’t an audience here. The room was empty, even with all the furniture scattered around and the papers strewn loosely on the floor, the room was as empty as it could ever be, with only the lone girl stumbling about. The room screamed of a past that long ago played out it’s finale, begging to be heard by those who cared to listen and read in-between it’s dreary atmosphere and streamer-like weave of cables. This was the world that the singer, the melancholy voice on the radio, was playing to now. A world long ago past it’s prime, suffering in it’s own toxic atmosphere of vague constants and bleak ideals. A world that forgot it died.
The singer was playing to an audience of ghosts…”
Another snippet of something I’m working at. I work at a snails pace because confidence is alien to me, so I tend to work more slowly. Still, I don’t think it’s too bad.